


Opinions

by i_am_greg_lestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John and Greg and Anderson are drinking buddies, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, opinions hurt, tea and coffee, wet leaves and bean juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1708562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_greg_lestrade/pseuds/i_am_greg_lestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been very "Holmes-like" lately, criticising everything that Greg says and shooting down his ideas. One morning, a spat over their preferred morning beverages just causes Greg to snap, storming out of the house and to work. On thing after another goes wrong and he ends up at the pub with John and Phil, drinking and laughing. That is, until a certain Holmes comes for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opinions

" _Bean water_?!" Greg stares incredulously at his life partner. Mycroft is sitting at the stool at the bar in their shared kitchen, Greg leaning against it from the other side. " _Bean water_ , says the man drinking wet leaves!"

Mycroft gasps and puts a hand to his mouth, eyes flying open with genuine shock. "First off, how  _DARE_  you?  And secondly, they are not just  _wet leaves_ , Gregory. This is snow geisha white tea, only the best. Light and sweet, with a hint of cherry." He takes a sip and sighs. "Your  _road tar_  could never live up to this. I am sorry." He turns and sticks his nose in the air.

Greg gapes, his face turning bright red. "You--" Greg glares hard at Mycroft from under his brow, his head tilted downward. "Oh, so it’s bloody  _road tar_ _now_??! No, sir. You will not be ruining my day over your opinions of my morning brew. Nope." Greg takes an angry swig of his Colombian ultra-dark roast, two sugars. He winced as it burned his tongue but he was too angry to really care. Greg wrinkles his nose and goes over to the sink, dumps his mug, puts on his jacket and coat, and stomps to the front door.

"Wha- Gregory, wait!" Mycroft yells as Greg snatches his keys from the hook he hangs them on by the front door. Mycroft runs i just as he opens the door. "Gregory, stop."

"Go back to your tea, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinks. He usually never calls him 'Mycroft' anymore. It was always 'Myc' or 'darling' or some other pet name. "Please, Gregory, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"You aren't always _RIGHT_ , Mycroft!" Greg suddenly yells, spinning to face his husband. "Yeah, okay, you're smarter than me and everything but that doesn't fuckin' mean that your bloody opinion is better!" Mycroft takes a step back at his outburst. Greg's head hangs low, a defeated air about him.

Mycroft feels a burning at the back of his eyes as he realises that this was more than coffee and tea. He sees that this had been building up for a while and knows why. Recently, Mycroft had been making a few changes around the house; new shutters, repainting the trim on the staircases, small details. Greg would tell him his ideas for other projects but Mycroft would just shoot him down. He wasn't aware that it had had any effect on Greg. He shakes his head, ashamed of himself. “I’m...” but all he hears is the door shutting.

\\\\\\\\\

Greg starts his car but doesn’t drive. It’s 7pm and he just got off work after a particularly hard day. He had to deal with Sherlock and his patience for anyone with the last name ‘Holmes’ was extraordinarily thin.

Sherlock, being himself as usual, had stridden into the crime scene, whipping off his gloves and taking out his little crime-solving detective kit. John walked over to Greg and leaned against the wall next to him.

“Hey Greg, how’s things?” he asked.

Greg just turned and gave him a look.

“Ehh, that bad, huh?”

Running a hand through his short silver hair, Greg sighed angrily. “Myc and I had a row this morning and I just walked out.”

John turned to him, eyes wide. “What? What happened?”

“Just… a spat about tea and coffee turned ugly is all.”

“Oh.” John leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “That all?”

Greg made a grunt low in his throat as confirmation. “It’s not like we hadn’t had that argument before… but it seems that lately my own opinions are always shot down and this morning I just… snapped, I guess.”

“It happens. They both do it, Mycroft and Sherlock. He treats me like I’m a bloody idiot.”

“How do you go about NOT murdering the sod?”

John snorted. “Oh, believe me, some days it’s hard. But I just tell him he’s being a cock. He gets what I mean and usually apologises.”

Greg barked a scoffing laugh. “A Holmes apologising is them actually admitting they’re wrong.”

“Exactly.”

Glancing at John, Greg got what he was saying.

“They _need_ to be told they are wrong sometimes.” John explained. “They are like children. Coddling them all the time and telling them they are right only fuels their narcissism.” He shot a look at Sherlock, who was currently muttering to himself about the hair and Christmas or something. “Just… tell him that you don’t like being treated like you’re a dunce. He’s smart. I'm sure he’ll figure it out.”

Now, in his heating car, Greg looks back on that conversation. Maybe that’s what he should do. But he’s still angry. He shouldn’t have to tell Mycroft that he isn’t stupid. They have been married over a year now. It should just be known. Greg pounds his fist against the dashboard and the radio clicks on in the middle of Simple Plan’s ‘Perfect’. “’ _Cause we lost it all. Nothing lasts forever. I’m sorry, I can’t be perfect_.”

“Oh, bollocks _that_!” Greg roars, slamming his hand into the radio, effectively silencing it and breaking off. Pain shoots through his hand and he notices that he shattered the hard plastic display, successfully slicing his palm open. “Bloody wonderful”. He turns the car off and runs into the Yard, running straight into Anderson.

“Oh, hey, boss, what’s u-” Anderson notices the way Greg was holding his hand and immediately stops talking. “Let me see.”

Greg opens his hand to show Anderson the gash. It was deep and bleeding quite badly. Greg’s mood is getting even more sour by the minute. He closes his hand and makes a beeline for the gents’ toilets but Anderson stops him.

“No, I’m going to pull my car around. We’re going to Bart’s. You need stitches and--”

“Fuck off Anderson, I’m fine.” Greg snaps at his colleague, instantly regretting it. He opens his mouth to apologise, but Anderson just holds up his hand.

“I get it. Rough day. I understand, boss.” He smiles. “Just let me help, okay?”

Greg looks at the younger man. He had cut his hair short and had grown out his beard a bit. He didn’t look as scraggly anymore. Rehiring him had been a good decision. Anderson had really cleaned up his act. He wasn’t as snarky and annoying. Even Sherlock seemed to get along better with him, agreeing with his theories even.

“Yeah, okay,” Greg agrees, nodding. “Go get your car. I’m going to get something to stop the bleeding.”

Anderson rushes out the doors as Greg walks into the toilets. He runs some warm water over his palm, wincing as the water stings him. As he lets the water flow, he glances at his reflection. He had dark circles under his eyes and a few more wrinkles around his mouth than he remembered. He sighs at himself and grabs a few of the white paper towels, holding them to his palm. He hears a faint horn sound outside and he rushes out.

Anderson keeps quiet most of the ride and doesn’t ask questions, for which Greg is honestly grateful. They turn onto the A3211. The traffic is not too bad tonight, letting them cruise smoothly for once. They arrive at St. Bart’s in 15 minutes and rush into the emergency room. They run into Molly on her way out, headed home.

“Molly!” Anderson calls, getting her attention. “A favour?”

She closes the distance and spots Greg, still clutching his hand. It had started to throb. “Oh, hey, Anderson. And detective inspector! What happened?” Concern is written on her face as she takes his hand and examines it.

“Oh, you know, busted my car’s radio,” Greg replies, flinching when Molly pokes at his palm. “Anderson says it needs stitching.”

“He’s right,” Molly folds his finger back over and presses on them. “Follow me; I’ll get you fixed up.”

“Thanks, Molls.” Greg waves for Anderson to follow.

Molly leads them to her lab after grabbing some thread, a curved stitching needle, and some wound-cleaning supplies. She points to the chair at the lab table and Greg sits. He rests his left elbow on the table and keeps his fist clenched as Molly dons her lab coat and washes her hands. Anderson grabs he some gloves and a surgical mask. She thanks him and gets to work on Greg’s hand.

“So, Greg,” Molly speaks, her voice kind, “how did you manage to break your radio?”

Greg grunts as the needle goes through his palm. “I hit it,” he simply states.

Molly looks up for a second and raises her eyebrows. “You hit it?”

Greg nods.

Anderson speaks up. “Why?”

 “I didn’t like the song.”

Molly and Anderson laugh, not realising Greg was serious. Their laughing awkwardly fades when Greg doesn’t respond.

Anderson clears his throat. “What happened?” he inquires plainly enough. Greg starts to get angry again but recognises that he just cares. Greg sighs and runs his uninjured hand through his hair again, a nervous tick.

“Just… had a stupid argument with Mycroft before work. Been in a right sorry mood all day.”

Molly tugs his hand closer, finishing the last few sutures. “Are you and Mycroft okay now, though?”

Greg shakes his head. He had been avoiding Mycroft’s calls and ignoring his texts all day. Greg just glares at the table.

Molly finishes up the last stitch and wraps his hand in gauze. “That oughta do it,” she says with a sympathetic smile. While she cleans up her work station, Greg checks his phone. 9 new messages and 14 missed calls, all from Mycroft. He heaves a sigh and relocks his phone.

“Can you take me back to the station? I need my car.”

Anderson nods.

They say their goodbyes and thank yous to Molly. “Don’t forget to come see me in a week to check your stitches.”

Anderson and Greg ride quietly for the first few minutes. The London Eye shines brightly from across the river, a shining halo in the distance.

“Do you ever have people just assume you’re an idiot?” Greg asks absentmindedly. He stares out the window, gazing at the water.

Anderson laughs loudly, startling Greg. “You’ve met me, right?”

Greg realised who he was asking and grins. “Forgot you’ve met a Holmes. Sorry.” He pauses. “They are both like that,” he says softly. “And I’ve gone and married one.”

“It was one spat. I’m sure you guys can work it out. Even Sherlock isn’t as bad now-a-days.”

Greg props his left elbow on the car door and puts his fist to his mouth. He thinks about all that Mycroft’s said recently when he’s rejecting his ideas. _Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory,_ or _That’s absurd. We’ll do it this way,_ and, the one that hurts the most, _You’re being an idiot._ Mycroft really knew how to make him feel like one, that’s for sure. He swallows past the lump in that has formed in his throat.

“Wanna come to the pub?” Greg asks. He doesn’t want to go home yet and he could use a pint or 5.

Anderson glances at him, surprised. He usually never gets invited drinking with anyone. “Uh, yeah. I’ll buy the first round.”

Greg has his phone out, texting John. _Meet me and Phil at the pub? The one near my house. –Greg_.

The reply is almost instant. _Oh, yes please. JW_

They got to the station and Greg gets in his car, Anderson following him to the pub in his own. John is standing outside when they get there. Greg parked a few blocks away, a street from his house, so he wouldn’t have to walk too far in the morning. He planned to get hammered tonight, just to forget for a while.

They walk in and sit at a round table. Anderson goes and pays for the first round, gesturing to the table, most likely telling the barkeep to keep them going there. Greg takes a greedy gulp of the beer, the hoppy taste calming his fired nerves.

John notices Greg’s bandaged hand. “Oh god, what did you do?”

Greg’s eyebrows lift over his glass, following John’s eyes to his hand. “Broke my car radio.”

John winces, a sympathy gesture. “Didn’t like the song?”

Greg laughs this time.”Not particularly, no.” He raises his glass in a halfhearted toast. “To… being idiots.”

Anderson and John crack up, clinking their glasses together. Greg smiles.

Two hours and 4 pints later, Greg is red in the face and laughing uncontrollably. John, only had 2 pints, but his nose was pink and his eyes a tad glassy. He told another joke and Greg about loses his mind.

“Is that why he wears the bloody awful scarf?” Greg wiped a tear from his eye as John nods.

“He thinks someone’s gonna drug him or go for the jugular.”

Anderson, who was the designated driver, had just had the first glass and switched to diet Coke. He takes a drink, a smile on his face. “And he calls me stupid,” he says absentmindedly.

“Right?!” John roars with laughter. He is really just doing this for Greg’s sake. He isn’t drunk enough to really be this rowdy but he knows it’s helping his friend.

Greg takes a sip from his glass and just about chokes. He sets his glass down and jumps down from the tall chair, grabbing his jacket. “Time to go,” he says hurriedly.

John follows his line of sights and his eyes widen. “Yep.” He puts some money on the table and hops down, gesturing to Anderson to follow suit.

“Oh, damn,” Anderson murmurs, seeing what has the other two so spooked. Mycroft, all tall and regal, had just walked in the front entrance.

Greg ducks behind their tall table and pulls his jacket. He motions for the other two to follow him. They walk normally, Greg only wobbling a tad, to the back door of the pub. Suddenly, a voice calls his name.

“Gregory!”

“Sausages,” Greg mutters under his breath, using an old childhood curse.The look on his face just screamed ‘help me’ to John and Anderson.

“Oi, Mycroft,” John hollers over the din of the busy pub. “Not right now, mate.”

Mycroft was nearly to them when he stopped, glancing from John to the back of his husband behind the short man. “Now is better than never.”

“Didn’t say never,” Greg mumbles before walking the rest of the way out the back door, Anderson and John close behind. He starts walking down the street, not exactly sure where he was headed but he knew he didn’t want to be there.

“Greg, the car’s the other way,” Anderson states. He glances back over his shoulder in the direction of the pub and his car a block from it.

Greg looks around and sighs, resigning. “You guys go on home or whatever,” Greg stops walking and sits on a nearby bench. “I need to talk to him.”

John touches Greg’s shoulder. “You sure?”

Greg nods, his head down, defeated.

As John and Anderson walk past, Mycroft exits the pub, a worried expression on his face. When he sees them, a mask of stony indifference shifts into place, guarding his emotions. “Where is he?”

John points at Greg on the bench a street away. Mycroft nods his thanks and walks briskly towards his waiting husband.

Sitting down, Mycroft mirrors Greg’s pose; feet resting apart on the ground and his hands clasped together in front of him. He takes note of the white gauze on Greg’s left hand but says nothing. They just sit there for a few minutes in silence.

“Gregory…” Mycroft touches Greg’s knee and Greg flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s gonna take more than that, Myc,” Greg could feel the lump in his throat again, choking him.

Mycroft sat back and shifted his position to face Greg. “I am deeply sorry, Gregory. I really, honestly am. I didn’t…” He stops, a ball of regret hardening in his gut.  “I didn’t realise I was hurting you.”

“Well you were,” Greg says angrily, clenching his good hand in a fist. “I’m not a bloody imbecile, Mycroft.”

“I know, Gre-”

“Then why do you act like I am?!” Greg yells, turning his head to face Mycroft. “Every single thing I say, you look at me like it was the stupidest thing you’ve heard in your life.” He shakes his head, going to stand. He cups the back of his neck with his left hand and puts the other fist at his waist, pacing in front of the bench as Mycroft just sits there quietly, letting Greg rant at him, knowing that he was in the wrong. “I’m not… I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, Myc. I’m really not…” The last words come out choked as the lump in his throat closes and the tears spring from his eyes.

Mycroft stands and wraps his arms around the older man. “I know. I’m so sorry, Gregory…” He holds Greg as he cries, the alcohol making him more emotional and raw. Greg just stands with his husbands arms around him, shaking.

“Make me a promise.”

Mycroft nods. “Anything, my love.”

“Try coffee sometime, will ya?”

Mycroft burst out laughing, overly happy that Greg forgave him. Because he knows when he starts cracking jokes, things get better. “I promise, Gregory.” He holds him out at arm’s length. “And I promise to listen to you. Everything you say, from now on, is the most brilliant thing you’ve ever told me.”

It was Greg’s turn to laugh. “Really now?” He scratches his chin and cheekily leers at the taller man. “Tea is disgusting.”

Mycroft’s eye twitched. He smiled. “You are most certainly drunk, my dear.”

Greg cracks up. “I knew you wouldn’t agree with that.” He grins up at the man he loves. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll never admit that. And it’s okay. We all have our opinions.”

Mycroft leans in and kisses Greg. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

They start walking but Greg pauses. “Wait. How’d you know I was at the pub?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “How long have we been married? You always come here when you’re upset.” He glances away. “Also… John may have informed me…”

“I’m gonna kill ‘im.”

Mycroft just laughs.

 


End file.
